Tremble
by Darkflame's Pyre
Summary: There's some things that we should never do, but then we do them anyway in an attempt to defend, protect, or because we are just too confused to know any better. This story is directly related to the Bound Series, containing spoilers following the posting of chapter 23 of Determined, so I'd recommend reading them first! Fic Fourteen of the Bound Oneshot Collection. Movie-verse.


**A/N: Hey guys. I know that it's not a chapter, but I'm having a busy week, and I just don't have the focus necessary to be able to sort through the mess in poor John's head. This is a little glimpse into Virgil's head. You'll get what I mean when you start reading. I hope you all enjoy. **

**Disclaimer: If not for Sylvia and Gerry Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.**

There's a heavy, clattering sound as the little machine slips from my clammy grasp and onto the hardwood floor, skidding away from my feet to hit the edge of the bureau.

I find I don't really care. I don't ever want to see it again.

Despite the three-dozen times I have done this since my epiphany the other day, my hands are trembling, and I clench them into fists to cease the shaking.

My heart beats fast, my tongue is thick in my mouth, and my head pounds with the headache that has been present for the majority of the past week and a half. The little computerised numbers are burned into my retinas, the thin, digitalised lines forming the repeated confirmation that I am indeed, in a deep pile of horseshit.

558.

Again.

_ Goddammit._

I've been trying to fight against needing to do this all evening, but the state of how cruddy everything has been, how ill my second eldest brother has been today, as well as the worries and subsequent relief I've had about my allergies-not-being-an-infection-that-is-contagious, have convinced me otherwise.

My hand sneaks up to tangle itself in the roots of my snarled hair —like Gordon's it is growing a little too long to be entirely manageable. I clench tightly and pull sharply at the strands, letting a hissing breath out from between my teeth as I fight not to bellow my frustration and terror aloud.

These rooms are no longer entirely sound-proofed, owing to the need to keep an ear out for John, who more often than not needs something at night to either help him sleep or prevent him throwing up so much, or to administer the many medications that he needs to take to enable him to function normally. Therefore, I really mustn't do so, for fear of alarming my family.

I'm terrified at the moment because John needs surgery within the next couple of days to see how severe the neuropathy of his right arm is, and his condition seems to be worsening rather swiftly despite all we are doing to help him.

It's really terrifying to see my normally such sharp and intelligent brother so out of it, and it's making everything that is going on with me and the rest of the family a thousand times worse, because we know there is nothing any of us can do but watch, and try to alleviate the symptoms of his disease.

It's the primary reason why I really don't want to absorb the evidence of what is on the screen of a machine that is barely wider than the width of four fingertips. It's just making the picture entirely too clear to me; that this isn't just a one-off thing, that there really is a serious problem here.

I've been feeling off for a while now. It's been taking me longer than it should to get over colds these past six months, and the relatively minor injuries that I'd sustained from 'Five blowing up into pieces are still at the pink and itchy stage that they should have reached over three weeks ago.

I should have noticed my body's cry for help before now, that my never ending thirst and the frequent tiredness and hunger must be a clue to something, but there is the fact that stress about recent happenings, and running after brothers, and not sleeping properly that tends to interfere with a guy's notice of his own body's needs. The fact that I've currently got a chest infection is proof of that negligence. I simply hadn't paid attention.

I'm worried about how the boys and Scott are handling the attack and John's relapse, and how this is going to add to it if it appears that they're true, my suspicions. I don't have to worry about John himself on that front thankfully, because he's too exhausted to dream regularly, and when he does, he's so tired afterwards that he doesn't really have the energy required to be properly concerned.

Scott in particular scares me because he doesn't get enough sleep as it is, and the small amount he's been getting isn't anywhere near what he normally manages to find. He doesn't talk to Dad, or John about anything of depth, and he never confides in me or Gordon either, so I wonder what will happen when this all comes to a head, as I am sure it will, sometime in the near future.

I know that Alan has been taking solace with Dad and John in equal measure; I know that he slips into John's bed, and that he has also had a few talks with both Scott and Gordon that are proving to be beneficial, but I know that we are barely brushing the surface where these things are concerned.

That's what makes my current predicament so much harder to come to terms with. The last thing this family needs is for me to be diabetic, to be adding yet another worry onto an already heaping plate, but it appears that once again, God is not making things easy for us.

I've been using a trial-and-error approach to my suspected condition; my medical knowledge is something I never thought I'd ever be using for something like this, but it's helping me to discover whether I'm just panicking, or if there's something really wrong with me that I really need to go see a doctor for.

It rather appears there is.

I sigh and bend slowly down to retrieve the glucose meter, wincing as the cramps I've been getting in my thighs blaze into fire when I straighten up from my crouch.

_ I know. _I think savagely towards my pancreas. _I know you need a fricking hand._ Give me a break_._

I've been using IR's emergency medical stocks of insulin, noting down what I take so it can be replaced later, and marking in a notebook my meals, the readings, and the insulin doses I've been taking to see if there is a pattern emerging that I can use to rule it out. I'm not getting the desired result, and it's terrifying me to a point where I can't comprehend anything. It's taking all my effort to hide how I'm feeling from everyone, but I know they've all noticed my moods. It's only a matter of time until they find out.

This is the ninth reading over five hundred that I've had in the past three days, and none of them have been below four hundred but for once. I'd somehow managed to lower my glucose levels to something just about resembling normal, but they didn't stay there for long.

I don't get what I'm doing wrong, and I haven't been able to open my mouth and say anything about it, even to Brains, despite the knowledge of what is going on with my body. I'm too afraid of the probable result to want to.

I've made a promise to myself that I'll ask Dad if I can go with them when they leave tomorrow for Kansas and John's surgery, and I'll get myself checked out. I know I need it badly; I know the consequences of waiting too long, and I know what I've been doing is definitely stupid, all kinds of idiot and just plain fricking foolish, but I don't want to cause anyone undue alarm, even if I should take care of myself before anyone else. I just can't.

I am an idiot. I know that. I know what is currently going on in my body; the main symptoms added to my loss of weight is a dead giveaway; that my body is starving from lack of sugar in my cells, but I couldn't gather my nerve enough to disrupt our family any further. But it appears that I am going to have to, because this just isn't working.

I ignore the thoughts whizzing incomprehensibly around my head, as I meter out the dose for what I know we are going to be having for tea. It is only an estimate because if I'm honest, I have no idea if the dosage is enough for the amount of carbohydrates I will be eating. I might be a medic of some description, but I'm only training really, and I'm still hugely unsure of what I should be doing, aside from keeping myself hydrated.

I wince as the syringe stabs into my thigh with the clumsy injection, and I painfully depress the plunger to get the insulin into my bloodstream. Hopefully that will be enough to cover the meal without anyone noticing…..

_Hopefully._

##

No such fucking luck.

Damn you…

Bless you… Stupid, overprotective dumbass…

John.

Did I call him non-perceptive and not-with-it? Yeah. I guess I did.

I guess I was wrong.

I'd seen him eyeing me yesterday morning when I'd taken Gordon's cup and plate to the kitchen, and I'd been in one of my bad, over-irritated moods —not normal for me once I've had my coffee— and I'd basically ignored him.

I was pummeling my piano for the first time since Spring Break, rather happily let me tell you, and then he planted himself next to me and just sat there, quietly waiting for me to crack and acknowledge him.

Of course I did; of course I fell almost to pieces, and damn it feels good to have let go of some of my own worry and know that my big brother isn't completely lost in his fog of pain and medications.

He's still there somewhere; the guy who listens and is just so damn caring. He's almost dying and he's still helping me more than he should.

God bless my brother, as he tells me that everything related to my worries from the attack about not being able to protect, of not being suspicious enough of not looking after the younger teens will be alright in the end.

But it is in the middle of his reassurance that it happens.

Without warning, my chest feels suddenly warm, hollow; empty. My vision blurs where my eyes try to focus on the black and white keys. My hands begin to shake, and I feel my brow and palms begin to get clammy and sweaty.

No.

Everything slows down, and I can hear John's voice, as though through water, saying my name; asking me questions, saying something about Scott. I look up at him, slow as treacle and dull as clay, but I'm only focused on one thing.

"J-John?" I slur, trying to keep track. "I-I don't feel right."

I blink slowly, lazily as my world spins, and Scott is suddenly here; my other big brother, lifting my chin and looking straight into my eyes.

"I think, my-my…" I can't get the words out, and it's scaring me. I've taken too much insulin. I know it. I've overcompensated for the dinner I've not yet had, waiting for John, never minding that I've no idea what I'm taking in the first place is right, and it's sent my blood sugar into a drop, despite the probable ketones and dehydration. "It's happening again—"

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to concentrate against the ringing in my ears. That's the only thing that echoes around my brain.

There is something I need to fix it….

Sugar.

It is only by some miracle that I recall that there is a wrapped toffee in the pocket of my jeans. It takes a great deal of effort and heavy breaths, but I finally manage to get my dead-weight fingers to unwrap it and stick it beneath my tongue. The result is almost instantaneous. It is slow, the improvement but I can feel awareness coming back to me.

The high-sugar sweet raises my sugar just enough that the world isn't spinning rapidly around me, and the fuzz in my brain clears enough to realise how huge a pile of shit I have walked into with my actions, as I face my white-faced brothers.

The best of intentions always end up having the worst kinds of consequences.

**A/N: So. I'm not totally sure what this was meant to be, but I hope that we might possibly all now understand what Virgil was feeling when he tried to self-treat, naughty boy.**

**I'm hoping that the next chapter will be up on Friday night, so fingers crossed. I hope you all enjoy the rest of your weeks, and now I shall head to bed because I've got sidetracked and need to be up in six hours. Oops! Please make me happy and review! Cheers!**

**-Pyre Xx**


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